


In the Lonely Light of Morning

by MapleleafCameo



Series: Towards Ecstasy [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Forgiveness, M/M, PWP, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 21:40:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3911629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MapleleafCameo/pseuds/MapleleafCameo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John muses on forgiving Sherlock after he has returned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Lonely Light of Morning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [johnsarmylady](https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnsarmylady/gifts).



> This is for the lovely johnsarmylady for her birthday. Happy Birthday, my friend:D She gave me these three words loneliness, insecurity and doubt. I chose to write another piece for my winglock story because she also said she liked wings and angst and smut:D How could I refuse?  
> Inspired by the music of Sarah McLachlan  
> Thanks to mattsloved1 for check this over.
> 
> Don’t own:(

John watches, afraid, afraid this isn’t real and he’ll awake, deserted once more. Doubt is terrible and raw and forces him to reach out and confirm the angel in his bed is warm and alive. With a trembling hand, barely touching, he brushes against the wing lying across him, enveloping him. It feels solid, tangible. Bolder now, more assured, he lets fingers run through the flight feathers, straightening, smoothing. Sherlock, mouth slack, a slight snore that will later be denied, moves slightly in his sleep, closer to John, a hand flings out and clasps his waist, owning, claiming. Watching the unearthly face move in sleep, praying he is real, John remembers other exchanges, in this bed, from before. Sherlock has said it is odd to sleep, to let go and follow the way into dreams and images, memories that play there, where emotions are freer, somehow. He finds it disconcerting, to simply let go and allow yourself to become unconscious. John says it’s normal for humans, healthy even. People have gone mad from sleep deprivation.

 

In his memory, Sherlock laughs, rich and throaty. “I am already mad.” He then whispers secrets and delights. Tells him exactly what he will do, how he will touch John here, like this and how John will moan, like this. He brushes lips over eager skin and his hands skim up John’s side, ticklish, but there is no mirth, it is dark and urgent, demanding. “Sinful,” Sherlock says, “what I will do to you. You will beg for forgiveness.” Another midnight laugh full of promise and seduction.

 

John accepts the depravity of it, the supplication of it. He takes the communion of Sherlock’s mouth and tongue into his, melds them together. He whispers back to Sherlock, “you are all I have ever wanted, you will be all I ever need.”

 

He remembers all of this and more as he watches Sherlock sleep.

 

He thinks about how Sherlock’s hand presses down on his hips, fingers flexing slightly, digging in, marking and bruising, holding him in place. Sherlock shifts his own hips in slow thrusts, not quite grinding, just the suggestion of it, a tease. “Don’t move,” he says, “or I will stop.” A shit-eating grin lights up his face.

 

He torments and pushes long and shapely fingers, stretching and burning. It’s unhurried, much more than John wants but exactly what he needs. A crook of a long finger and John cries out, “Sherlock, please.”

 

“Please what?” There is no mercy in the dark-god crystal eyes looking down at him.

 

“Please, Sherlock. I want…” he breaks off in a tortured gasp, and Sherlock continues to mock him with his fingers. “Shhh, soon, soon.”

 

Half desperate, half mad himself, John’s surrender begins, drawn out and languid. His mouth captured again or relinquished, he’s not sure which. Sherlock murmurs in his ear, but not in any language John recognizes, not meant for human voices. He thrums and pulses and sweats. Kisses trail down the side of his neck, the feel of the words that Sherlock speaks into his skin, indelible, hot and heavy.

 

John does moan, exactly like he had been told. One last touch and Sherlock enters completely, full hilt as they say. This is his first time, filling John, making him his and it isn’t what either expects. John watches Sherlock’s face, the expressions; the light from the street burnishes his skin, turning it from ivory to gold. It is sacred and holy.

 

He wants to close his eyes to savour and feel every movement, feel this invasion that is welcome, but he longs, badly, desperately to watch Sherlock. He sees his eyes sweep across John’s face, down his body and looks at what he is doing to him, what they are doing together. His eyes come back to John’s face and he groans as he comes, shaking and rough. John can finally close his eyes and he joins him.

 

Sherlock’s head collapses on John’s shoulder. Hard.

 

“Ow! Fuck, that hurt.” It comes out half gasp, half laugh.

 

A slightly confused look, a swift apology and a lingering kiss on his scar. Carefully, gently, Sherlock pulls out but he looms over John, his wings flutter slightly as his heartbeat slows. He folds his arms so they are across John’s chest and he looks at him. John lifts a shaky hand and runs it through Sherlock’s curls and down his neck gently brushing the tops of the great wings. Sherlock shivers. His cock lying flaccid stirs once again.

 

“Really? John chuckles. “You are insatiable.” Sherlock, his head to the side watching the dawn break, turns back and grins, angelic to demonic.

 

That was before. Before he was left behind, alone and forgotten.

 

Now John is sheltered with Sherlock in their bed. The great wings stretch out over John, hiding, guarding. He is in a bower of feathers, blanketed. He looks carefully at them, in the soft, lonely light; morning sun kisses the foot of the bed. The wings are soft, but stiff, irresistible. They aren’t completely black. There are dark, intricate colours woven throughout, all edging on black, like the deepest part of the sky at night; navies and greens that were more bronze, browns that could be mistaken for black. The stars live there, twinkling and pulsing with each breath. John rolls and turns into Sherlock, inhaling as he does, scenting the thunder smell, the lightening smell, that clings to him, fresh and dangerous. God, how he missed him, missed this. He lifts his hand to touch and feel the feathers where the wings meet flesh, continuing to marvel that he is allowed.

 

Kissing the tip of Sherlock’s nose and John watches the closed eyelids flutter. Sherlock’s face scrunches up as he surfaces from wherever it is angels go to dream. The crystal blue, crystal green greets his gaze. A shift of light and a frown and John sees the insecurity that lies at the bottom of the pool of blue-green.

 

“What, love?”

 

“I wasn’t sure if you’d forgive me.”

 

John hesitates. He admits in his head he wasn’t sure either, if it was possible. Instead of answering, he kisses Sherlock long and hard, tongue flicking in, head moving to adjust his position. With a sigh he leans back and looks at Sherlock. Warmth replaces the cold ache in his belly. He trails a hand across the pale flesh. He thinks about loss and loneliness. He thinks about not sleeping and worry, not eating and wondering if he would be able to get out of bed in the morning. The effort of existing without this divine grace that lies beside him.

 

He could speak to Sherlock of the loneliness, the doubt, the insecurity. He could tell him ‘you were gone and there was a gaping hole in my chest. I was bleeding everywhere’. He doesn’t. He’s not sure Sherlock would understand, not sure it would make any difference. Instead he says. “Of course I forgive you.”

 

But Sherlock is Sherlock and he pushes for more. John tries again.

 

“I…” he clears his throat, the words are rusty and stuck. “I had sunk so low, without you, I …can you understand? There was nowhere to turn and I felt I had no one. I was so alone before you came and so alone when you left. I don’t want to ever feel that again.” He pauses and looks at this person, this angel he loves, more than anything. “I have to forgive you, Sherlock, I need to forgive you, but not because of that, not just because of the loneliness and the fear. Not because of what I would be without you, but because that’s what you do when you love someone.”

 

“You love me?” How can an ageless, million-year-old entity look so young, be so insecure?

 

“Yeah, I do.”

A rose glow races through Sherlock as he blushes. John touches the heated skin. Sherlock is becoming so much more than what he was. He isn’t sure if that is a good thing or not.

 

“You shouldn’t you know. Forgive me.”

 

Clasping Sherlock’s shoulder he gives him a shake. “You are an insufferable git, telling me what I should or shouldn’t do. Accept it. You’d be stupid not to.” He rubs at the worry lines. “Accept it and let’s move on. I forgive you. I love you. I want you. For now and for always.”

 

Sherlock nods and lies back in John’s arms. Mercifully, John finally believes Sherlock is here and will stay. As he drifts he thinks he hears,

 

“I love you, John.” 

Amazement clenches his heart as he follows his own path into dreams.


End file.
